Free Whispers From The Abyss by Kat Rocha (Editor) Page A

came back.  The Government bombed them back to the Stone Age during Prohibition, but somehow they survived deep in the water.  It doesn’t matter because their plan already worked.”
    “Resurrection?  What do you mean?”
    Marsh glanced around the room suspiciously as though there was some unseen observer.  “The Esoteric Order of Dagon sent out one of their brides to Yorba Linda, California.  Her name was Almira Milhous.” 
    That name was familiar.  It took a moment to realize that it belong to the mother of the devil himself, Richard Milhous Nixon.  Was this the break he was looking for?  “Wait, Nixon has family in Innsmouth?  Is that where he is getting the campaign funding?”
    “They’ve been waiting for a day like this for decades since the government stopped the waking of Dagon.  They’ve waited for the day that one of their sons would arise in politics.”  His breath stank of rot.  “Why do you think we’re over there in Vietnam?  Fighting one of the other cults trying to bring across some monster from Leng!”
    “ Vietnam started with Kennedy.  Tricky Dick might be a bastard, but you can’t blame him for everything,” I protested feeling sick that I was defending Nixon even for a moment.
    “You think the Kennedys aren’t involved in this?  You think Jack was a good man because someone put a bullet into his brain?  History is written in the blood of the victims of the truth!
    Yes, they are a picture perfect family with classic Boston roots.  Most folks don’t realize that those roots lead right here in Arkham and a history of bootlegging to Innsmouth.  The Order planned to use him and old Jack eventually refused them when he realized how things would turn out.  He threatened to tell the world about the Order in Dallas and paid for it in blood.”
    Marsh babbled nonsense for an hour, but I had experience with proper junkies and was able to piece together some information.  One name came up over and over again.  Waite Transportation. 
    When Rooster and I finally cleared the asylum, we decided to head on over to Innsmouth before returning to Boston.  The name burned in my brain without even knowing why.  How did all of this connect together?  Would the secret be the magic bullet to take down Nixon? 
    I barely registered it when Rooster slowed down the Impala and pulled into the old, dilapidated fuel station.  Several egg-shaped propane and diesel tanks rusted along the edges of the gravel road that circled the property.  Touching anything here would surely lead to a tetanus shot.  How could this be the only public gas station in the county?  “Don’t stop!  This is fish country!”
    “We don’t have a choice, Doc.”  Rooster pointed to the dashboard.  There was less than a quarter of a tank in the Impala.  “We’ll need the gas if we get into trouble and that almost always happens around you.  I figure we should simply plan for it.”
    We rolled into the gas station punctuated by a loud, echoing ping.  A blubberous giant in greasy overalls with a tag that read Gilman emerged from the office wiping his sausage fingers with a red rag.  Was it possible that his poor bastard’s name was Gilman?  Could some wily fisherman have quietly dragged this mutant fishman from his net and set him immediately to slave labor working at the town’s old gas station instead of a traveling circus?  The lines and spots that pocked his cheeks and neck almost appeared to be scales.  When his mouth opened, his teeth were yellowed and sharp like a shark.  “What can I do ya for?”
    The trick to handling an uncomfortable situation is to push full ahead without thought to the possible consequences; the stranger you act the better.  Push your luck to edge and hope if you drive off that cliff that somehow you learn to fly.  “Gas, please.”
    He started filling up the Impala.  He blinked once, craned his neck, and then gibbered in broken English.  “Why you coming this